Sherlock's Other Escapism
by Es Aitch
Summary: What does Sherlock do when playing the Violin isn't helpful? This is how he soothes his mind. Post-THB/Pre-TRF Disclaimer: BBC, Moffat and Gatiss own anything recognizable - the artists or their foundations have rights to their works. One-Shot
1. Sherlock's Other Escapism

**A/N: I'm aware there is a change in tense in this story. Usually it happens between telling the story part (past tense) and Sherlock's thoughts (present tense). I apologize in advance for it.**

* * *

"_I thought you didn't care about...Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it._" (John and Sherlock, in _SHERLOCK_ "The Great Game")

Sherlock had a small luxury that few knew about and he never really spoke about it, unless the topic came up. Sherlock enjoyed going to art museums. It wasn't often that playing his violin couldn't sooth the racing thoughts in his head, but every so often, playing the violin only made the steam-engine that was his mind chug faster instead of slower. In these rare times, Sherlock escaped to the National Gallery.

Sherlock knew more about art than most people would imagine. After all, painting with colours is not very different from painting with musical notes. Sculpting with ones hands is not very different from sculpting with a violin and bow. Each of these achieves its intended purpose: to express with colour, movement or sound when words fall utterly short of such expression.

When Sherlock and John returned from Dartmoor, Sherlock was a bit out of sorts. His experience with the drug and the subsequent doubt he felt had rattled him more than he would ever admit to anyone. He had tried to explain it to John, but without much success. Now, they had been back for two days and even playing the violin was too restrictive for what Sherlock was trying to express. He grabbed his coat, put it and his scarf on and left John at the flat with a curt, "I'm going out."

Sherlock hailed a cab and requested to go to the National Gallery. When he entered the Gallery, he started to wander. To the casual observer, his movements through the different displays probably seemed random. However, Sherlock rarely, if ever, did anything without a specific purpose. He never stayed in one section, nor looking at one specific artist's work for more than ten minutes. For those ten minutes, he would observe only one artwork at a time. He would allow himself to become lost in it.

Someone who casually appreciated a work of art might see the work as a whole, but Sherlock would contemplate the materials that were used, the colours, the brush strokes, all those little details that seem lost on everyone else. That was where the interesting aspects remained. Anyone can draw, paint or sculpt their idea of what image they were seeing. What makes an artist's work unique is not necessarily their interpretation of a given image, but the methods they apply to express what they see or feel. It is perhaps the one time where Sherlock feels like he understands another person. Well, the way he thinks others understand each other, at any rate.

Sherlock claims that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the loosing side. An artist's expression of their innermost thoughts and feelings is not the same as sentiment. It helps them to think or to process through different aspects of their lives. If Sherlock is completely honest with himself, he would admit that he has more in common with the likes of the misunderstood artists than he does with the likes of brilliant scientist. However, he is not that honest – with anyone – so, it is easier to consider himself in the company of Stephen Hawking than Edvard Munch. In the end, he is what he is and others will see him however they want to, no matter how hard he tries to tell or show them otherwise.

Sherlock stopped in front of one of the works by Claude-Oscar Monet. A small smile twitched and only one name came to his mind as he looked at the work, Molly. The light pastels and subtle strokes lay in stark contrast to the striking dark colours that allowed for contrast reminded him of Molly. So many people considered her mousy – or discounted her altogether. Moriarty and Mycroft both do not see her for the value she holds. Perhaps that is for the best. If others never realize her worth, then perhaps she would be safe from the havoc that he seems to bring upon most people he knows.

Like a Monet painting, Molly is not only what is seen on first glance. Looking more closely, one can see how the different colours layer and blend together to create the various images that appear. Molly is no different. Sherlock refuses to work with any of the other pathologists at Bart's. Molly really is brilliant when it comes to her work. More than that, he trusts her. He knows, like that Christmas that seem so long ago now, that if he ever needed to be put in his place, she would do it. When Molly calls him out on his behaviour, he knows he must heed her words. Molly does not ask him to change his behaviour. She, rather poignantly, shows him how his behaviour hurts her. Of course, he does not realize the pain he causes her until it is too late. That is only because she always seems to know him so well. He takes for granted that she understands him. He expects her to remember that he really does have her best interests at heart, even if he makes a mess of expressing them.

Sherlock likes the Impressionists, but it was time to move to something less colourful. Again too much colour, too many layers only makes his mind go faster. He moved toward photography and came across the works of Ansel Adams. As black and white photography goes, it was exceptional; the way the contrast gives depth and perception to the works. However, in the end, it was basic. A picture of a mountain or a tree was still just the image that was presented. Sherlock decided that this was not unlike Sally Donovan and Anderson.

They were both so simple. On the other hand, that was good, for him. He knew exactly where he stood with them. They were – transparent. Obvious. Dull. That is not to say that the work of Adams is dull, for its genius is in it its simplicity. At the same time, there is not a lot to 'figure out'. At least, there is not a lot to keep his mind occupied.

That was the crux of it. He wanted his mind entertained, but not racing. He could still feel the panic of doubt, which was completely illogical. After all, the drug was out of his system. He solved the puzzle. There was no reason for the panic he could still feel occasionally surge through his system. He sighed. He was not quite ready to return to the Impressionists yet, so he turned to the Surrealists.

Sherlock came upon a Salvador Dali Exhibit. Sometimes he could get into the Surrealists, but today they were making him uncomfortable. They remind him too much of Mycroft. For as much as he and Mycroft are similar, they are still rather different. The work of the Surrealists is never what it seems to be. Just when you think you discover one meaning; you blink and another meaning reveals itself. On the positive side, they are never boring and can usually hold his attention for some time. Sherlock chuckled softly, aware of the other patrons in the gallery. Surrealists can hold his attention when Mycroft, the very epitome of being enigmatic, cannot hold Sherlock's attention for more than a few minutes at a time.

Sherlock does not know when everything changed. Perhaps it was when Mycroft stopped being his brother and started being his parent. Only now, that Sherlock would like to have a sibling again, it is difficult because that relationship has already morphed into something different. Perhaps that is why the Surrealists represent Mycroft. No matter how hard Sherlock tries to understand his brother, the second he thinks he has an understanding, his brother reveals that all the rules have changed.

For as much as Sherlock thrives on complexity in cases, complexity in relationships exhaust him. Perhaps that is why the Impressionist comforts him more than the Surrealists do. Something concrete in the work of the Impressionists allows him to quickly wrap his head around it. This allows him to delve into the deeper meaning of what their work represents. He turned his back on the surrealist and saw across the way another Impressionist: Degas. Another small, smile appeared as such an artist could represent only one person in his life: Mrs. Hudson.

If ever he had encountered a person precisely when he needed to, it was Mrs. Hudson. He had been struggling with a recent relapse of his drug habit and an odd side effect had been a desire to be mothered. If he were honest, he would go even farther and say he wanted to have his mother near him. Mrs. Hudson had entered his life with the case of her husband. She had no children of her own. With what she was going through with her husband, Sherlock became a surrogate son. They are… good for each other; each fulfilling a role desperately needed by the other.

He approached the work and realized just why this could represent Mrs. Hudson. Degas paid attention to the background. Not just in his action scenes, but even in his portraits. If one paid close enough attention, they could see that there is colour where seemingly no colour should exist. Mrs. Hudson is like those colours in the background or more accurately, like another painting, where Degas added a floral design to the background, just because he wanted to add it. Mrs. Hudson is always there in the background, simply being herself. And yet, if you took away that background, the picture would be profoundly different. It wouldn't have the same meaning or be as interesting. Sherlock once said England would fall if Mrs. Hudson ever left Baker Street. More importantly, Sherlock's entire world would be more dismal without her.

Sherlock again turned and was faced with some of the classic artists. Rembrandt was first and oddly, his work reminded Sherlock of The Woman. What reminded Sherlock of her was the way that Rembrandt played with light and dark to highlight different aspects of his works. By using light and dark, he was able to show you what he thought was important about his work of art. However, his attention to detail allows you to look at his works carefully and see what he has placed in the darkness. Regardless of a story Rembrandt was capturing, he was adding to the story, perhaps even inviting you into it. To dig deeper and suggest that more is happening than you might expect. Irene Adler is like that. She captures his imagination.

He chuckled softly as he thought about the moment he first saw her, entering the room naked. Reflecting on it, it was probably a wise decision on her part, because there was not much for him to see. To an extent, she was completely transparent. She was a dominatrix and there was nothing else he could deduce about her. It had frustrated him tremendously, but in the end it was her transparency that had allowed him to figure out her lock code. He was glad John had not witnessed that deduction. He is quite certain that John would have considered him cruel. However, she had tried to play him. She had used his intrigue of her against him. He only offered to her what she had done to him. He was not completely heartless, he kept tabs on her and helped her to fake her death properly once he felt she had learned her lesson.

Sherlock sighed and turned into another gallery. This one had various works of Michelangelo. He smiled as he thought of Lestrade. Sherlock fully believes that at some point in the future, Lestrade will be looked to as an example for younger Detectives to follow. It is one of the reasons why Sherlock works with him. Out of the entire Yard, he is probably the most intelligent. It is not saying much, but when he looks at the works of Michelangelo and thinks about how some of his contemporaries treated him, well, the parallel cannot be denied. Lestrade can be a genius, but he will not beat you over the head with it. You either accept him or you do not, but he will do whatever it takes to perform his duty to his own standards.

Michelangelo's work is like that. That sounds funny, since most people only think of the likes of the Sistine Chapel or the statue of David. The colours he used were at once, both vibrant and have a translucency to them. In today's era, people might say they look 'cartoony'. However, his attention to other details, the way skin and muscles are stretched over bones, is what captures Sherlock's attention. That too reminds him of Lestrade, not because of anything the Detective did for his job, but because of what he did for Sherlock personally. Lestrade took him under his wing when Sherlock had given up on himself. In those days, drugs were the only things that stopped…. No, must not think on that now. Perhaps another day… In the end, as Michelangelo breathed life into the Sistine Chapel, Lestrade gave a life to Sherlock.

The gallery opened to another one: Da Vinci and Sherlock's pulse heightened. Da Vinci could only represent one person: Moriarty. Only Da Vinci could represent someone as diverse as Moriarty. Because Moriarty is as diverse as Da Vinci. In the same way that Da Vinci was an artist, inventor and scientist, only he could represent Moriarty. Da Vinci fascinates Sherlock and so does Moriarty. They are both like puzzles that need to be solved. They are both geniuses and each in their own right they are both completely mad.

Sherlock moved on. He didn't come here to dwell on Moriarty. He came across a rather large touring exhibit: Vincent VanGogh. For a few moments he positively beams. This was clearly John. With striking colours and strong brush strokes, but still accomplishing delicate images. VanGogh's works operate within the constraints of creative tension. Much like John: a doctor and a soldier. A man who could kill without a second thought, but who would have nightmares for years about those he could not save.

It was a contradiction in terms, much like VanGogh himself. A man who could create such amazing works, considered a failure in his own time and the depression that ate him alive. Sherlock sighed. If the world were only a bit more tender…. As he stood there looking at the works of VanGogh, he realized what he has in common with John. In a sense, they are both working themselves towards unemployment. For if there are cures to all illnesses, there is no need for a doctor. If there is peace, then there is no war and no need for a soldier. In Sherlock's case, if there is no crime, there is no need for a detective. Sherlock had once said the frailty of genius is that it needs an audience, in no case was this more clearly exhibited than in that of VanGogh. John Watson is a genius too, in his own right. But, his gratification is always attained a little more directly. As a doctor and soldier, he either saves or kills people. So he knows instantly whether he is a success or not. He does not have to rely on others to express their awe.

VanGogh used paint to describe his world; John uses actions. In both cases, though, Sherlock's world is a little more vibrant because of their existence. He wonders if VanGogh would have self-destructed, had he known the impact he would have on the world. Then Sherlock thinks about what happened to John when the gas had affected him. Sherlock nodded grimly to himself. Some things cannot be cured, you can only let them run their course and hope for the best. For all the light and vibrancy of many of VanGogh's works, there is a darkness as well. His depression was always there, operating as an undercurrent through the darker paints he used. Sherlock thought about the darkness that runs through John and hopes that he will never see the day that darkness is the stronger influence in John's life.

Sherlock's thoughts turned dark again as he thought on the darkness. This is not why he came here. Again, it was time to move on. He decided that maybe he should just return home. Perhaps his mood is too dark and he should just accept it. He began to make his way out of the gallery. As he was leaving, he came across a small display that made him feel completely at peace: M.C. Escher.

This artist's works represented himself. Not only were they mathematically accurate, but they were simple etches. Sherlock himself is rather simple, if people just took the time to realize it. Of course, he was just as complex at the same time. Looking at "Relativity," was like a window looking into the way Sherlock's mind operated. That is not to say it is reflective of his Mind Palace, far from it. It was more representative of the actual way his mind functioned, oh yes, completely confusing and mental to anyone on the outside looking in, but makes all the sense in the world to the person residing there.

Sherlock took a calming breath, no longer feeling quite so afraid of the world and left the Gallery. On his way home, he realized that what happened in Dartmoor was simply a warning that he should never be complacent in himself. He chuckled as he hailed a cab for the ride home. He was still a young man and there was time enough. He still had things to learn about himself and there were still opportunities for growth. He might be a genius about some things, but not even he knows everything – yet.


	2. Samples

FFN apparently doesn't believe in making a "Works Cited" list easy to accomplish here. I've done what I can :S

(Take out all spaces and change "dot" to . and "slash" to / and "underscore" to _)

docs DOT google DOT com SLASH document SLASH d SLASH UNDERSCORE Xwa4O UNDERSCORE N4 SLASH edit

This will take you to a document that will show some of the images I was looking at when I was writing this piece. Obviously, I don't own the rights to any of these works either (except for a few which I have in 'poster' form.)


End file.
